In the 3 seconds that it took to drive past you, I saw something bold and strong and good.

We were making our way down the steep side of the mountain. In our big car, seat belts on, music playing, security of love and provision all around, we were busy trying not to get pushed off the road by the manic drivers in the great hulking buses that seemed to hurl toward us from around every bend.

And we passed you there, just 5 of you, beside your produce stalls, holding life with the calm, fierce resilience that your mothers and grandmothers breathed into you.

Here where the ledge widens and there is room enough to set up, you press out a living from these small shops. This is where the money for your kerosene lamps is made. This is how you feed your babies and keep your older children in school.

But that is not what I saw.

I saw your grace and strong sisterhood.

The gentle curve of her neck bent so that the others could braid her hair...The lips, moving just as the nimble fingers did as well... The bright colors of your wraps wound round your waists to keep your soft skirts clean. All of this I took in as we drove by.

In those 3 seconds I saw the braiding of your lives--the thick strands of solidarity overlapping, woven strong and beautiful.

And maybe this is where you are the safest. Which one of you has never been struck in anger by a man? Which one of you has not spent cold nights under leaking roofs? Which one of you has not been forced into intimacies that you did not desire? Which one of you does not fear for the future of your children?

I saw you resting in the sanctuary of each other and I thought, "Oh! African Magnolias."